


All I tend to do is think of you

by Oywiththepoodlesalready



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Oblivious Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oywiththepoodlesalready/pseuds/Oywiththepoodlesalready
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has decided to move away for college to put some space between himself and the craziness that is Beacon Hills and  everyone keeps checking up on him.<br/>Well, almost everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Morning Song by The Lumineers.

 

It starts out innocently enough: 

Stiles has been away at college for all of eight days when Scott drops by with a big tray of lasagna courtesy of Mama McCall in his hands and commandeers Stiles' bed with a casualness that would have been rude coming from anyone else. It's ten o'clock on a Tuesday night and Stiles should probably thank the heavens that his obnoxious roommate Alfie is out (presumably drinking his body weight in alcohol), because in true werewolf-fashion, Scott does so unannounced and by way of Stiles' window.

He suspects Scott does it just for the sick joy of seeing Stiles flail and clutch his heart in shock, so he retaliates swiftly by eating more than two thirds of the lasagna by himself, stuffing his belly until he can do nothing more than lie very flat and breathe shallowly.

It's eerily reminiscent of their childhood, this – lying on their backs in his narrow bed and staring at the ceiling, talking about nothing at all (most importantly not: Stiles' sudden decision to depart, how life in Beacon Hills goes on without him, the most recent creatures of the night he's pretty certain the Nemeton is still luring into town).

There's really not a lot they can safely talk about without veering into dangerous territory, but Scott being Scott, God bless him, is nothing if not up to the challenge.

So Stiles lies in the dark and listens as Scott talks about TV shows, about lacrosse practice and date nights with Allison and tries his hardest not to fill in the blanks where Scott stumbles over a name or lets his narration drop off suddenly, to pick up somewhere easier, safer. 

He never loses his lighthearted tone of voice, never touches on the heavy silences and loaded pauses that stretch between them and Stiles feels a fierce kind of gratefulness well up inside him at that.

It's just a short reprieve, Stiles knows, a little break to catch his breath and sort his jumbled thoughts, but he's thankful for it anyway. After all, he's living on his own for the first time in his life and all of a sudden, society at large keeps expecting him to behave like a mature adult on a day-to-day basis – he can totally do with being babied for a night. 

And so he curves into the slightly elevated heat that is Scott, and dozes off to the sounds of him recounting all the different ways Allison is really that much cooler than Katniss and tries quite hard not to feel a pang of homesickness at the easy familiarity of it all.

 

 

…

 

 

Then there's Erica, of course, who drops down into the open seat next to him in one of his forensics lectures and just as soon as she's seated, starts pointing out the lesson's inaccuracies in a not so quiet tone of voice: 

“Do you morons really think all of that blood came from just one person? What, you think he turned ninety degrees after each hit just to confuse you with the blood splatters on the wall?!”

 

And even though there's a small part of Stiles that wants nothing more than to high-five Erica, because he's been biting his tongue for forty minutes, trying to keep the corrections that would _clearly_ lead to some uncomfortable questions safely inside his own mind, there's a much lager part that just doesn't want to be labeled as _that weirdo,_ so when she turns to him expectantly for back-up, he tries to make himself as small and inconspicuous in his seat as possible and stares at her with a carefully schooled expression of horror, trying to blend into the sea of shocked students.

 

It's no use. Try as he might, he's been _that weirdo_ since about the second day of the semester and he can feel the accusing stare of dozens of eyes on himself as much as on her.

So he gathers his stuff as fast as possible, grabs Erica's arm and shoots her a look that he hopes conveys _please act at least somewhat human_ and shoves her out of their row of seats. She goes willingly, for someone with super-strength anyway, so at the very least he has his nonverbal conversation skills going for him, apparently.

Or not, because she winds her way out of his grip at the top of the stairs to add insult to injury: “Stop teaching those kids complete garbage and fucking _look for the other body!”_

Stiles ends up ditching all of his classes for the rest of the day after that (nothing like an incognito werewolf to ruin criminology with her running commentary) and ends up at the only coffee shop on campus, being quizzed about his rooming arrangements, sleeping patterns, eating habits like she's ticking off a list in her mind.

 

It's all very surreal and strange. 

Then again, he had once been dead for 16 hours in a ritual sacrifice, had fought banshees and druids and even fairies, once, and made it out the other side to where he's currently sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, fighting over the last piece of blueberry scone with a former epileptic-turned-hot-werewolf, so he feels he should really not be allowed anywhere near categorizing things according to their strangeness.

 

 

…

 

There's Boyd then, though, and it really doesn't get any stranger than that.

Boyd, who has never taken a particular interest in Stiles in all the years they have known each other, taking on the fifty minute drive to visit Stiles is in and of itself weird enough, but him seeking out Stiles in the middle of the library, dropping into the chair across from him with barely so much as a vague nod in his direction and then typing on his phone for a solid 25 minutes, that's just...not entirely surprising, but still bizarre. 

The choice of venue is probably completely intentional and if he's being honest, Stiles is actually quite relieved that Boyd decided to nip any awkward attempts at small talk in the bud by opting for a place where silence would not only be appreciated but actively encouraged, but still – what's the point of this whole visit if he's not going to say a _single word?_

 

 

Twenty minutes of silent typing on Boyd's part later, he's almost psyched himself up to the point where he could maybe see himself instigating a conversation when his phone lights up where it's lying half-buried under his notes.

 

**Unknown number to Stiles Stilinski 5.23 pm:**

_**you coming saturday?** _

 

Confused, Stiles looks up from the screen to where Boyd is still focused intently on whatever he's doing on his phone.

“Dude”, he stage-whispers, “is that you?”

 

There's no visible reaction, just the sound of slightly too long fingernails tapping onto the screen and then his phone comes alive in his hand again.

 

**Unknown number to Stiles Stilinski 5.24 pm:**

_**who else would it be?** _

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Unknown number 5.24 pm:**

_**hope you know you've officially gone off the rails. what's saturday?** _

 

**Unknown number to Stiles Stilinski 5.25 pm:**

_**movie night @ the loft. yes or no?** _

 

Stiles scrubs a hand across his head and stares at his phone in contemplation. He hasn't been home yet since the beginning of the semester and his jeep hasn't been driven for more than ten minutes at a time for far too long and if he gets started right away and maybe pulls an all-nighter on Thursday he might be able to get most of his coursework out of the way before Friday and his dad has been bugging him about a family dinner for weeks now so maybe...

 

**Unknown number to Stiles Stilinski 5.28 pm:**

_**you haven't been home in weeks. people are getting mopey.** _

 

**Stiles Stilinski to unknown number 5.28 pm:**

_**what people?** _

 

Stiles risks a glance at Boyd to gauge his reaction to the question, but all he gets is a deepening scowl directed at the tiny phone in Boyd's hand and a renewed fervor in typing. 

 

**Unknown number to Stiles Stilinski 5.29 pm:**

_**people who aren't me. so you coming or what?** _

 

Well, if he's being asked _that_ nicely...

 

**Stiles Stilinski to unknown number 5.30 pm:**

_**sure. wouldn't want** _ **people** _**to mope.** _

 

 

There's a rustle from across the table as Boyd unfolds himself from his chair and starts in the direction of the door without another glance at Stiles. He's watching Boyd's retreating form with his mouth gaping, trying to make sense of his weird behaviour, when a thought occurs to him out of nowhere.

 

**Stiles Stilinski to unknown number 5.32 pm:**

_**who sent you??** _

 

Given what just happened, he doesn't really expect an answer, so he jumps a little when his phone lights up from where he's tossed it onto the table in frustration.

 

**Unknown number to Stiles Stilinski 5.32 pm:**

_**8 pm. bring nachos.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to unknown number 5.32 pm:**

_**Very funny. Tell Scott moping doesn't look sexy on him.** _

 

 

Stiles leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, satisfied with his detective abilities when there's a loud snort emanating from where Boyd has just closed the door behind him, followed by a series of snickers that grow gradually quieter until he's once again met with silence.

 

Somehow, he gets the feeling Boyd isn't as impressed with his deductive skills as he should be.

 

 

…

 

 

There's a moment when he's standing in front of the door to the loft where Stiles finds himself wondering whether he should just stop trying with this whole moving-away-shindig or whether, maybe, he should be trying harder, should turn around on the spot right this second and never look back. 

 

Because there had been a reason for leaving this, all of the movie nights, the late night pizza binges, the reassurance and security that comes with being part of a pack, behind for a lousy roommate and a sea of nameless faces.

 

Because after spending most of his last two years in school fighting to survive, fighting to stay _sane_ through darkness and hallucinations and mind games, fighting to stay human, to stay brave, Stiles had been exhausted. Tired of being afraid, tired of having to keep one step ahead at all times.

 

Because more than anything, Stiles had wanted to be normal. To, just for a little while, lead a normal, quiet life. No werewolves, no druids, no banshees or darachs, just little, insignificant, normal day-to-day problems.

 

And yet here he is, about to walk into a room full of mythical creatures. 

 

He thinks he should probably be more affected by how little that scares him.

 

 

But then the door opens and before he can blink, he has a mouth full of hair and his arms full of Lydia and Allison, making him stumble in their impatience to get their hands on him.

He feels a pang of longing in his chest at the mingled scent of their shampoos and hugs them back hard. 

He hadn't realized how much he had missed all of this. 

He gets a one-armed hug from Scott, a hearty clap on the back from Isaac and an aborted wave from where Jackson is already lounging on one of the big armchairs facing the TV. Erica skips over and drops a big kiss on his cheek and Boyd ignores his arrival completely, but that's nothing new.

And then there's movement from his left where the open living area gives way to the kitchen and suddenly Derek is standing in front of him.

Stiles can't help the flutter of anxiety in his stomach as he notices the stiff way he holds his shoulders.

 

And it's not like they were the best of friends before he left, but in the years since they've known each other, Stiles likes to think they had developed some kind of mutual respect for each other, at the very least. He might even have classified them as tentative friends those last few months, if the teasing, the inside jokes and this kind of _affectionate_ feeling he had developed at the sight of him were any indication. 

But then Stiles had decided to take a shot at a normal life and Derek had grown noticeably distant. He hadn't heard a single word from him in his five weeks of boring college life and it's not like they ever had the most talkative relationship before, but still, standing here now, faced with his own insecurity of where they stand – Stiles realizes that he had rather missed his grumpy face.

 

It's very quiet in the loft, quiet enough for Stiles to be aware of his heartbeat and it makes him uncomfortable. Apparently, he's not the only one who has noticed this is somewhat of a crucial moment. 

 

He wills his heart to keep beating a steady rhythm when he forces a crooked smile to his lips, hyper-aware that at least four werewolves with super-hearing are scrutinizing his every move and bodily reaction (he doesn't think Boyd particularly cares, at least).

 

“Hey”, he opens softly and it might not be up to his usual witty standard, but suddenly his mouth feels uncomfortably dry and any other words get stuck in his throat when the corner of Derek's mouth twitches in an approximation of a smile.

 

Two steps and all of a sudden, Derek is looming over him, hand hovering inches from his left shoulder and Stiles reflexively holds his breath at the unexpected proximity. Derek is staring at his own hand as if it's an appendage independent from his body and then, with a flick of his eyes to Stiles', lowers it very deliberately onto his shoulder.

 

The air in Stiles' lungs leaves him in a relieved whoosh at the way Derek's shoulders visibly relax at the touch.

 

“Hello Stiles”, he rumbles and he's close enough for Stiles to feel his breath fanning across his face, hot and moist. 

 

And just like that, everyone around them starts moving again, as if on cue, and Derek gives his shoulder a hard squeeze before releasing him to stalk over to the couch.

There's a faint buzz coming from where Derek just touched him, the air of the room cold against his overheated skin and while everyone else is finding their seats, he's left wondering where the sudden tightness in his chest came from.

 

 

 

As it turns out, they're watching _Star Wars: A New Hope_ and if Stiles wasn't already pretty positive they had all missed him at least to some extent, he sure as hell would be now. 

He's practically giddy with excitement (especially since he's been bugging Scott about this to no avail since before they stopped thinking girls were icky) as he plops down into the last free space on the couch with a flourish, smack in the middle of Isaac and Derek. 

There's nachos and Star Wars and people who (for the most part) appreciate his special flavor of awesomeness – he doesn't think this night could possibly get any better.

 

 

 

It does.

Or, at least, it gets a lot more exciting.

 

There's light-sabers and Chewbacca and all-around awesomeness on the screen and, really, a young Harrison Ford alone would normally be enough to hold Stiles' attention, so he's not really noticing a lot of what's going on around him, but then Derek leans forward to grad a handful of nachos and the movement brings his thigh flush against Stiles' and he freezes almost instantly, attention zeroing in on that little patch of added pressure.

He dares not move an inch while Derek sits back slowly, resuming his former position. His leg, though, stays exactly where it is, pressed up against Stiles' from knee to hip.

Stiles tries to let go of the air in his lungs as slowly and surreptitiously as possible, aiming for nonchalant and, if the raised eyebrow Scott is throwing his way is any indication, failing spectacularly - damn those werewolves with their super-hearing! 

So he sputters something about Chewie being completely underrated and prays to the heavens that they will, just once, let him have this tiny emotional crisis in peace.

 

Because Derek is still staring at the screen completely relaxed, sipping his beer and generally being completely unaffected by this new kind of closeness while Stiles tries his very best to keep his heartbeat and breathing regular.

 

Because there had been lots of very good reasons for Stiles to leave the craziness that is Beacon Hills behind for good, most of which had made their way somewhere onto a most comprehensive pro and con-list. 

But there has always been this big one that mostly tickled at the very back of his mind, not under any circumstances to be poked at, that's coming rushing back to him now in full force, with a tightening ball of heat in his stomach and a fierce desire never again to move an inch.

 

_He's never been sure which side of the list to put it on._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

Stiles is still riding a high he hasn't entirely decided to give himself permission for when, hours later, he bundles Scott and Allison into his Jeep to give them a ride home. His right leg is slightly tingling from when it had fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of _The Empire strikes back_ due to extensive non-moving and the delusional little part of Stiles that's keeping count has decided to mark that down as a win. 

Scott is yawning widely next to him while Stiles is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in an attempt to release some of his nervous tension.

 

“Derek seemed a lot...less grouchy tonight, don't you think?”, he blurts out into the silence because it's a thought that has been weighing on him for most of the night. “I mean, compared to when I could still annoy him on a daily basis.”

 

Scott pats him on the shoulder clumsily, the angle awkward. “Don't worry, he really hasn't changed that much. Most of the time, he's still his grumpy old self.”

 

“I don't know, man - I think I even saw him crack a smile once, I don't think I remember him ever doing that back when”, Stiles wonders, unconvinced. 

 

“Maybe he especially enjoyed the company tonight”, Allison pipes up from her seat behind Scott, leaning around to waggle her eyebrows at Stiles teasingly.

 

Stiles frowns at the dark street stretching out in front of him, contemplating for a second. “Yeah, I guess having his whole pack together in one place without ripping each other's throats out is bound to put any alpha in a good mood. Should have probably done that a bit more in high school then, huh?” 

 

There's a beat of stunned silence in the car and then, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Scott's shoulders shake with silent laughter and Allison drops back into her seat with a little chuckle.

 

“Sure, Stiles, if that's what you choose to believe”, she says in a tone that reminds him of the way his father has come to address his more outrageous rants, somewhere between exasperated and amused.

 

It confuses Stiles and he wants her to clarify, but before he can open his mouth, she starts to babble about Scott's lacrosse practice and her archery team and before he knows it, they have stopped in front of Scott's house and Allison is dragging Scott out of the car with a quick goodbye and a wave of her hand. 

 

He sits in the dark street for a moment and stares out at the night sky. His leg is no longer tingling and it's messing with his high.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

Driving back to college the next day after lunch with the Sheriff feels an awful lot like leaving a vital part of him behind. It squeezes his chest and tugs at his heart and it only gets worse the further he drives, until it gets to be too much and he has to pull over to lean his forehead on the steering wheel and breathe deeply. 

It's not like he hadn't expected to miss his dad, to miss Beacon Hills as a distant nostalgic concept of his childhood home, to miss his friends.

He hadn't expected this, though – this visceral pain he feels at the thought of having to go on without them, having _them_ go on without _him_.

Because if he is being honest with himself, maybe that's what hurts the most: the fact that he had willingly torn a Stiles-shaped hole into their circle and he can do nothing more now than sit back and watch them slowly patch it over and learn to live with the loss. 

His breath comes in short, painful bursts and he feels the edge of a full-blown panic attack creeping in. He balls his fists against it, presses his fingernails into his palm to let the pain anchor him in reality and wishes fervently for something to pull him back from the edge. 

 

He drags in a painful breath and holds it in his lungs until they start to burn from the strain, remembering Lydia in the locker room, making him hold his breath with her lips on his and he clamps his eyes shut against the images his mind conjures up at the thought. 

Because he's fairly sure none of them would have strawberry blonde hair and really, isn't that just another panic attack waiting to happen?

 

 

 

 

So he goes to lectures and keeps his head down. He writes a paper on the psychology of serial killers, drinks too much coffee and sleeps too little, he even tries talking to the girl who sits in front of him in criminal law, who is blonde and tiny and fair-skinned. Who is talkative and smiles a lot and is generally all the things he should want but doesn't. 

He goes to a house party with Alfie, gets mind-numbingly drunk for the first time in what feels like forever and gets hit on by a guy who is nicely built and dark-haired and kisses like he wants to get a taste of Stiles' tonsils. Stiles stumbles home alone and bitter and tells himself the wetness on his face has nothing to do with self-pity and everything to do with violently puking his guts out in the communal bathroom. 

He falls asleep in class, eats shitty take-out and ruins his favorite pajama pants by putting them in the dryer by accident. 

He leads the perfectly normal, insanely boring and frustrating life of freshmen all over the world. He resolutely does not think about Beacon Hills and all its furry and non-furry inhabitants.

 

 

 

 

Two weeks after movie night at the loft, Allison texts and, well-mannered girl that she is, tells him she's coming down in a few days. There's still no question about it, no opening where Stiles can butt in and insist that he's doing just fine, _thank you very much_ , there's no need for constant supervision – but at least she has the courtesy of letting him know in advance when to be on his best behavior. 

So she takes him out for fro-yo two days later and although he's fairly sure they are friends mostly by association, he has to admit that having her undivided attention for an extended amount of time is actually kind of nice. Slightly terrifying – but nice.

 

“So”, she begins after she has made it trough half of her cup and the way she licks her spoon a final time before lowering it carefully to her napkin lets him know the small-talk portion of this little get-together is officially over, “how are you doing?”

 

“Oh, you know, the usual. Classes are keeping me pretty busy, but at least most of them are somewhat interesting. My roommate is still working pretty hard at becoming an alcoholic at the tender age of nineteen, and sometimes I really kinda miss not having to share a bathroom and kitchen with a bunch of strangers. I wanted to bake cookies last week, because you know, master of procrastinating and all, but someone decided to dry his soaked jeans in the oven and set it on fire, so...”, he shrugs and scoops up another spoonful of his rapidly melting ice cream. “Also, I realized college papers are not so much about having your own thoughts on a subject but rather figuring out what the person who's grading you thinks your thoughts on it should be, so...I feel like I've been doing a lot of lying on paper recently.”

 

He risks a glance at Allison, who is blinking big round eyes of sadness at him and he realizes with a start that his account of college life actually sounds quite depressing.

 

“But, you know, living on your own and stuff. Lots of parties and new people and nobody there to tell you you've had enough, so yeah, that's...awesome”, he finishes lamely and directs a crooked smile at Allison.

 

She quirks an eyebrow and taps her spoon against her lower lip with a mischievous glint in her eye.

 

“So all those new people you're talking about...met anyone interesting?”

 

Stiles snorts and points his spoon in her direction accusingly. “That almost sounds like you're asking me about...girls.”

 

“That's because I am”, Allison huffs, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

 

“Oh, wow, didn't know we were at that point in our...”

 

“You going to answer the question or just – blabber nonsense in hopes of me forgetting I ever asked?”

 

“Fine”, he grits out and tries hard to keep a straight face at the victorious grin that spreads across Allison's face. “There's really not much to tell, though. I realized girls in college are a lot like girls in high school – just slightly older. They still like muscles and guys who treat them badly.”

He shrugs and keeps his face carefully neutral. It's part of the truth, anyway, so he doesn't think it qualifies as lying, exactly, but still – he's more than a little relieved Allison can't hear his heart beating out the truth against his ribcage in heavy thumps. 

 

( Because it's not that nobody knows he exists. It's that everybody takes one look at his face and knows exactly who he is.

 

There's this seminar they have once a week, where his criminology professor opens up one of the county's cold cases and lets them all have a go at them with whatever theories they can come up with. He told them at the beginning of the semester that he had once solved a case with a particularly helpful tip from one of his students and made them a deal: you help solve the case, you get a straight A on the final exam, no questions asked. 

Stiles still remembers the buzz that went through the room at the announcement, remembers his own excitement at the chance to try his hand at something real, something challenging. 

He remembers, clear as day, walking into the auditorium the next day, filled to the brim with chattering students, only to come face to face with his worst nightmare projected to the big screen in the front.

The words _animal attack_ are used a lot in the minutes that follow and every time they are, it's like a sucker-punch to the gut. There's claw marks, mauled faces, people cut in half, ritual burials with foreign blue flowers strewn all over the place, the whole damn thing. 

It's not Beacon Hills, but it's still Stiles' life, his very own personal hell he just walked in on. 

He feels it bubble up inside him, the panic, the surprise, the goddamned _craziness_ of it all, as images keep flashing in front of his eyes, of Peter burning, of Laura's dead body, of Scott and Derek and Lydia and his dad, and it all bursts out of him in a hysterical fit of giggles.

Once he gets going, he can't stop, keeps laughing until his eyes are spilling over and his lungs are burning from the lack of air, until everyone is looking at him and his legs are shaking, until his ears are ringing, until he is being carried out of the room and he doesn't know anymore if the sounds clawing his throat raw are still giggles or already sobs.

 

The game is no fun if you have all the answers but aren't allowed to play. )

 

 

“Why are you always selling yourself short?”

 

Stiles tries for a self-deprecating grin. “Trust me - I'm really, really not.”

 

There's a disapproving hum from Allison and then she's waving her spoon in his face.

 

“Well, if you weren't so hell-bent on still seeing yourself as that gangly teen who never knew where to put his hands or when to stop talking, maybe you would realize there are people out there who like you exactly the way you are, muscles be damned. You just have to stop being so stubborn and open your eyes.”

 

She finishes with a huff and a flourish and Stiles watches her stab the pile of mush in her cup ferociously, too stunned to do anything but gape at her for a few seconds.

 

“That's...wow. Quite the pep talk. You should totally teach Scott how to do that.” He aims for light-hearted, poking Allison in the arm until she looks up and grants him a tiny grin at the praise. “But honestly, how about you just save me the trouble and show me to whoever wants a piece of this - “ and he gestures wildly at his hoodie-clad chest, “because I have absolutely no idea who you're talking about.”

 

Allison snorts and goes to steal a spoonful of Stiles' fro-yo puddle.

 

“Now, what would be the fun in that, huh Stiles?”, she challenges and counters his answer of an outstretched tongue by throwing her balled-up napkin at his face. 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

Stiles is just about halfway through the tuna sandwich he recently rediscovered in the depths of the communal refrigerator, shoved to the very back of his designated shelf by a carton of pineapple juice that was very decidedly not his, when his dad calls:

 

“Guess who I ran into today at the grocery store?”

 

It sounds like a challenge and Stiles being Stiles, he is never one to turn down one of those, so Stiles tries his best to swallow the remainders of his sandwich, which admittedly, has not been made any less dry by being abandoned in the fridge for a week. 

 

He fails spectacularly, getting a piece of lettuce stuck in his windpipe and coughing up the whole thing in a violent fit.

 

“A werewolf?”, he wheezes finally, wiping tears from his eyes and dropping heavily into his desk chair.

 

His dad makes a distinct “harrumph” sound over the line.

 

“You only say that because 70 % of your acquaintances are werewolves.”

 

“If you pose impossible questions, I'm gonna try to earn myself an advantage somehow, so deal with it. Also, I'd say more like 75 %.”

 

“That was a rhetorical question, you... - nevermind. Where was I? Oh, yeah – I ran into Derek Hale.”

 

Stiles looks up from picking bits of tuna from his assignment for criminal theory to scoff at his desk lamp.

 

“Derek? Grocery shopping? Like a normal, functioning, well-adjusted supernatural being with a working kitchen and everything? You sure we're talking about the same person here?”

 

His dad sighs heavily down the line. Miles and miles away from home and still, Stiles never fails to try his patience.

 

“Yes, Stiles, how many other Derek Hales do you know?”

 

He's barely opened his mouth to retort before his father hurries to add:

“Rhetorical. Don't answer that.”

 

Stiles lifts one eyebrow and waits for his father to elaborate while dabbing on a wet spot on his paper with his sleeve, trying to keep it from smudging. There's nothing, so he huffs in impatience. 

 

“Did he do anything strange? Suspicious, maybe?”

 

There's a pause on the other line and it's making Stiles a tiny bit antsy. Derek had been doing so well with the not-getting-arrested since his dad had found out the truth about what really goes on in the wooded hills in and around Beacon Hills, how on earth could he have somehow messed up a trip to the grocery store?

 

“No, not really. He looked way out of his comfort zone in the bakery section but other than that he seemed pretty normal. Nice, even”, the Sheriff muses.

 

“Nice?”, Stiles squawks , knocking over a mug full of pens in his surprise.

 

“Yeah. Asked about you and everything.”

 

Stiles waits for his dad to volunteer any more information, but he's met with silence on the other end and flails his arms wildly in a futile attempt to get him to elaborate.

 

“What? What do you mean he asked about me?”

 

Another sigh, more pronounced now. “You know, how you were doing, how your classes are going, when you would be coming home next, the usual stuff.”

 

Almost against his will, Stiles bounces out of his chair and scrubs his hand vigorously across his head in an attempt to dispel some of the tension buzzing in his fingertips.

 

He wills his voice not to be shrill: “The usual stuff? What, do you two always talk about me in your little neighbourly chit-chats?”

 

“Mostly, yeah”, the Sheriff replies calmly and Stiles could _swear_ he can practically hear the smug smile.

 

Stiles sinks heavily back onto his seat and puts his head in his hands. He can just picture it: Derek and his dad chatting about him behind his back, laughing about the stupid shit he does, consoling each other for having to put up with him, basically being best buddies. Awesome.

 

“Uuugh”, he groans instead to get rid of that train of thought, “anything else? Or can I go hide in a corner now?”

 

“Nah, I think that's it for today”, his dad answers way too cherfully. “Although...”

 

“What now?”

 

“I think he might have swapped my regular beef burgers for turkey when I wasn't looking”, the Sheriff continues in a much more subdued fashion.

 

A breathless little laugh escapes Stiles' throat at the idea.

  
“Really, Dad? The big bad wolf stole your meat?”, Stiles snorts down the line and picks up his half-eaten sandwich from where it had landed on the floor earlier. “That's probably just your subconscious trying to prolong your life a little more. Why on earth would Derek do anything like that?”

 

He sniffs at the sandwich suspiciously and – yep, never should have eaten that in the first place. He tosses it in the trash decidedly.

 

Maybe he should order a pizza. There's probably a pizza out there somewhere for less than three bucks, right? 

 

The Sheriff makes a thoughtful noise. “Well it sounds like something you would do.”

 

Stiles opens his browser and starts typing “cheap pizza” into the search engine one-handedly.

 

“Damn right it does!”, he enthuses while scrolling through the results. “I think my awesomeness is finally rubbing off on you!”

 

There's a beat of silence and an unconvinced noise from his dad while Stiles, unsatisfied with his findings, types in “really cheap pizza” instead.

 

“I really don't think that's it. Derek looked kinda shifty and on-edge at checkout...”

 

Deciding to just raid the communal fridge for anything edible (because hey – anything on his shelf technically belongs to him, right?), Stiles minimizes his browser and spins his chair in a lazy circle.

 

“Nah, shifty and suspicious is just his natural aura. Your subconscious has finally caved and is impersonating your son, don't ruin it with your conspiracy theories, oh Father o'mine!”

 

There's a commotion at the door that probably means that his very drunk roommate – should he ever manage to find the lock with his key - is just mere seconds away from faceplanting onto the floor, so Stiles interrupts whatever his father still has to say on the matter with a quick: “Sorry, Dad, gotta go.”

 

They say their goodbyes and just as the door swings open, as an afterthought, Stiles hastens to add:

 

“And eat the damn turkey, Dad!”

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

It's another ten days before the next unexpected visitor drops in. This time, it's Isaac, knocking at his door at eight in the evening on a Thursday, brandishing a small see-through bag of something that looks somewhat akin to cookies like a peace offering.

 

“That's for you”, he says by way of greeting and shoves the cookies into Stiles' chest, not waiting or him to fully grab them before letting go and sitting down on Stiles' unmade bed.

 

“Uh”, Stiles grunts, fumbling to keep the bag from hitting the floor, “thanks?”

 

He holds the bag up to his face for further inspection: definitely cookies, even if they look like a three-year-old was involved in the process of making them. They look more like huge unevenly shaped blobs of dough than actual cookies, but the chunks of white chocolate and macadamia nuts in them are equally huge and that definitely counts as a plus in Stiles' book. It's the kind of cookies his mom always used to make when they needed extra motivation to get through a mountain of chores or homework or school projects. It's the exact kind he would have made had the oven not been destroyed.

 

“Don't thank me, I just brought them here”, Isaac mumbles from where he's lounging on the bed.

 

Stiles flops down next to him and fumbles with the piece of string holding the bag closed. 

“Who do I thank instead then?”

 

Some kind of uncomfortable emotion flits across Isaac's face and he shrugs awkwardly.

 

“I...I don't know, really. The bag was just sitting there on the table with your name written on it, so...I don't actually know who made them.”

 

Stiles hums thoughtfully and turns the bag over in his hand, examining it.

 

“You sure these are for me? My name's not on here.”

 

“It...was a note. There was a note with your name on it. Next to the bag”, Isaac bumbles, scratching his neck and avoiding Stiles' eyes.

 

Stiles hums contemplatively and grins a little, drawing a wicked kind of satisfaction from the way Isaac squirms under his gaze.

 

“Probably Erica. I mean, she's the only one I can think of...”, Isaac scrambles on and his face clears as he settles on this as the most likely explanation, nodding decisively.

 

“Yeah...probably”, Stiles mumbles and out of the corner of his eye he can see Isaac relax against his pillows, but he doesn't stop eying the bag suspiciously.

 

Erica definitely _is_ the most probable solution. 

Only Stiles has seen Erica bake, has tasted her cupcakes and – most importantly – has seen the care that goes into decorating each and every single one of them. It had taken him a while to reconcile this baking, delicate Erica with the brash and loud werewolf he had come to know, but now that he has, there is one thing he is absolutely sure of: These ugly lumps of cookies would have never, over Erica's dead body, made it anywhere but into the trashcan.

 

 

He lets the issue rest for now, though, because for all that they look like hell, they sure taste awesome and make the perfect provisions for a few heated rounds of Halo before Isaac has to make the long way back to Beacon Hills.

 

 

 

 

 

When Stiles lies in bed wide-awake three hours later, still riding the last waves of a sugar-induced high, his thoughts drift back to the conversation with his father a few days earlier. The thought of Derek sneakily swapping his dad's meat for a healthier alternative makes him grin widely into the still darkness of his room. The idea is utterly ridiculous, but that doesn't stop him from letting the idea of Derek looking out for his dad warm his insides and before he can think better of it, he grabs his phone from where it's lying on his nightstand.

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 11.42 pm:**

_**Please pass on my gratitude to whoever baked those cookies. They're awesome! :)** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 11.43 pm:**

_**(The cookies are pretty awesome, too.)** _

 

 

And because it's late and his mind is muddled by sugar and sleepiness, he forces himself to put his phone back and sticks his hands under his butt to keep them from doing anything that cannot be taken back.

 

He lies in the dark for another thirty minutes before deciding he probably won't be deigned a response, so he turns his back to the phone and wills himself to sleep.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

He's back in Beacon Hills three weeks later for Isaac's twentieth birthday and unlike last time, at least now he feels confident that he knows what to expect the moment he walks through the door to the loft.

Which is why he is more than a little scandalized when, after the whirlwind of hugs and affection that are Lydia and Allison, everyone else keeps their distance, instead opting for a curt nod or a frosty stare.

He stands in the door-way, dumbfounded, and spreads his arms wide in a gesture of bewilderment.

“What, no hugs for me today?”

He's met with more silence and pointed stares from Isaac and Scott, which is why he directs his next question to the latter: “What's going on? Why's everyone looking at me like they want to murder me in the most brutal way possible?!”

 

Scott stands abruptly and then does a weird thing with his eyes where they flick from side to side horizontally, as if he wants to indicate something to Stiles - if only Stiles could speak crazy-eyes.

“How about we talk about this over here in the kitchen...”, Scott grits out between his teeth when Stiles can only make questioning faces at him.

 

Which is dumb because the majority of people in the room couldn't care less about walls when it comes to eaves-dropping, but Stiles follows Scott into the kitchen anyway and lets him close the door behind them.

 

Scott rounds on him with eyes blazing before the door has even properly clicked in its lock.

 

“I thought you weren't seeing anyone!”, he accuses harshly in a half-whisper.

 

Oh. So the closed door was for Stiles' benefit of having the illusion of privacy. Just perfect.

 

“I'm not!”, Stiles hisses back, rapidly becoming fed up with all this passive-aggressiveness tonight.

 

“Then why do you smell like you are?!”

 

“What?!” Stiles squeaks, foregoing dignity for rightful indignation.

 

“YOU REEK!” somebody shouts from the other room (Jackson, probably, judging from the bored undertone) and Scott makes some kind of wavy hand-gesture at the door that Stiles interprets as _there you have it._

 

He huffs out a frustrated breath of air and throws the door open, stomping through to the living room.

“What do you mean I REEK?!”, he booms and tries to make himself as tall as humanly possible (which is, unfortunately, not very tall when you're one of only three humans in the room).

 

“You smell like another guy's skin and sweat. Also, like beer”, Isaac offers in an appeasing voice, trying to diffuse the thick tension in the room.

It makes Stiles deflate a little because who does he think he is to come in here and make a fuss when all Isaac wanted for his birthday was a nice quiet evening with video games and pizza. 

 

The fight leaves his body in a heavy sigh and Stiles scrubs his hands through his hair in frustration.

“I'm not _dating_ anyone, god. My roommate decided to take a nap against the door frame and when I found him there, I couldn't just leave him...so. I dragged him to his bed, end of story. You people with your supernatural noses should just be happy he didn't puke on me...this time.”

He spreads his arms wide at the end of his explanation and gestures at the couch loosely.

 

“Can I sit down now?”

 

Erica scrunches her nose up and sniffs the air over-dramatically. “You still reek.”

 

“Come on, it can't be that bad?!”

 

“It's offensive”, Boyd grumbles from his seat on the sidelines and the fact that he felt the need to contribute to the conversation says a lot about just _how offensive_ Stiles' odor apparently is to their delicate noses.

 

“Come on, you guys! I didn't drive all the way here to have you all stay miles away from me! I want my cuddles!”, Stiles exclaims and makes grabby hands at Scott, who rolls his eyes at him from where he's snuggled against Allison on the arm chair.

 

There's a blur of movement from where Erica's been sitting then and without a warning, something soft smacks Stiles in the face.

He reflexively grabs at it before it can hit the floor and as he gets a better look at it, can see he's holding a dark gray hoodie. 

“Put it on”, comes the order from Erica before he can do so much as quirk an eyebrow. 

 

Everyone is looking at him expectantly, so he does as he's being told, quickly ridding himself of the apparently offensive sweater he's wearing over a thin black undershirt and throwing the hoodie on.

 

As soon as he pulls it over his head, he's enveloped by the rich scent of it, like pine needles and burnt wood and something heady and masculine that he can't quite put a finger on. It's, strangely enough, equal parts comforting and unsettling.

 

“Hmm, is comfy”, he mumbles and breathes in deeply with his eyes closed, snuggling deeper into the soft folds of the sweater that pools loosely around his hips.

 

He cracks his eyes open and as he spies the generally more relaxed faces of his friends, goes to plop himself down between Erica and Isaac in the middle of the couch.

“Whose is this?”, he asks as Erica sniffs at him experimentally and, seemingly satisfied with what she finds, lays her head on his shoulder.

 

“Mine” comes the grumbled reply from where Derek is lowering himself to sit on the armrest of the couch. His voice has a possessive edge to it that makes Stiles' hands fly up in a pacifying gesture.

 

“Sorry, I didn't know, I can -”

 

“It's fine”, Derek interrupts him. His eyebrows are drawn down, making him look his usual moody self on first glance, but there's a splash of color high on Derek's cheekbones and Stiles thinks there may even be a twitch at the corner of his mouth and he decides that's good enough for him. 

The hoodie stays on.

 

 

 

 

 

He's watching Isaac and Jackson fight over the controller a while later when he feels movement next to where he's resting his head on the back of the couch. Something is tugging slightly at the hood of his sweater. He tries looking around the room without having to lift his heavy head, so his range of vision is slightly limited but he still manages to get a glimpse of Derek watching the fight that is rapidly deteriorating into a playful tussle with a quiet, fond look on his face. He can also just see the arm that Derek has slung over the back of the couch, right up to where Stiles is resting.

He's stuffed and warm and sleepy, so his mind is piercing the available information together rather sluggishly, but eventually he realizes the movement he detects is not someone tugging at his hood, but rather Derek rubbing the fabric of the sweater between his fingers, seemingly without even meaning to.

He lets it go on for a few minutes just to see if Derek is going to snap out of it anytime soon, but he doesn't.

 

And Stiles is beat, he's completely and utterly exhausted from lugging around an increasingly chubby Alfie earlier and he's happy here, warm and sleepy and _safe._

And he's so so _tired._ Of keeping his head down, of censoring his own thoughts, of trying to hold everything together, of lying. To himself, to others. He's just so _tired_ of it all.

So he stops. Moves his head an inch to the left, until he feels the skin of Derek's fingers beneath his cheek, stilling immediately but not withdrawing, closes his eyes and doesn't think about what any of it means.

 

 

 

When he wakes up, it's very quiet. He's alone in the living room and the only sound he can make out is the soft clinking of dishes in the kitchen. 

He has a slight crick in his neck from falling asleep at an awkward angle and there's a somewhat damp patch where his face was smashed into the couch. He stretches languidly as his eyes fall on the clock above the TV. 

2:28 am. So that's where everyone is.

He pads his way over to the kitchen, sleepily rubbing his eyes. Derek is standing at the sink, soaping up plates and, adorably enough, humming under his breath and he wordlessly grabs a dishtowel and moves to stand beside him. Derek flinches slightly as Stiles takes the first sopping wet dish from his hands and abruptly stops humming.

He flicks his eyes over to Stiles and the tips of his ears flush pink as he goes back to washing the mug he's been holding. Stiles clamps down hard on the smile that's threatening to break. 

“Thanks, you know, for...” Stiles starts softly and then stops, letting the sentence hang in the air around them. 

_For letting me fall asleep on you. For possibly drooling all over your fingers. For being the best almost-human pillow there ever was. For not letting me die, for always coming back for me, for keeping me tethered to reality, if only barely. For being the best, period._

He can't say any of that. 

“It's fine”, Derek mumbles and Stiles would really like to know what Derek thinks he is being thanked for.

Instead of asking, he takes the mug Derek is offering him and if he lingers a millisecond too long when their fingers touch, well, there's always his sleep-addled brain to blame.

They work in silence for a while, the only sounds the sloshing of the dishwater and the clinking of porcelain.

 

Stiles clears his throat after a few minutes. 

“It's...really nice and all that your pack is apparently worried about me”, he begins softly and concentrates intently on the plate in his hand, “but there's really no need for them to keep checking up on me, you know? I don't actually get in mortal trouble much when I'm not hanging around here...so, no need to drive all the way down there just to check if all of my limbs are still intact.”

Derek's hands are very still where they are submerged in the soapy water. Stiles tries not to stare at the veins in his forearms.

“I just mean...if someone – anyone, really – wants to know how I'm doing, they can just text me. Or call. Whatever”, he drifts off, uncomfortably aware of how rigid Derek feels beside him.

The plate in his hand is as dry as it is ever going to get, so Stiles puts it on top of the stack next to him and, when Derek makes no move to unfreeze, plunges his left hand into the water to grab for something else to occupy his hands with. He finds Derek's fingers instead and, heartened by Derek's lack of reaction at the touch, hooks his pinky loosely around the tip of Derek's ring finger.

He feels Derek release a trembling breath at his side and turns to face him.

Derek is still staring straight ahead, but he's doing something strangely tender with his face and it makes Stiles' heart seize up.

“I promise I won't judge anyone for caring”, he tells Derek's cheek gently.

The words hang in the still air between them for long seconds and then there's movement against his finger in the cooling dishwater and Derek's head gives a curt nod at the sink.

Stiles is still watching the side of Derek's face when his ring finger curls itself lightly around Stiles' pinky for a second and then it's gone, back to scrubbing down plates and cutlery.

“Okay”, he breathes into the space between them and tries to calm his racing heart.

 

 

It's not until he's lying in bed thirty minutes later, listening to the familiar sounds of his childhood home and breathing in the mingled scent of fresh sheets and pine needles, that he realizes Derek never asked for his sweater back.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has somehow turned into at least 50 % text-fic. Oh well.  
> I hope you enjoy anyway :)

 

 

He still has nightmares, sometimes. 

They're not as bad as they used to be back when he still felt the Nemeton's pull day in and day out, but it's enough to make him stay in the library until closing time and wish that sleep was optional. 

In the months directly following the sacrifice, it had gotten to the point where he had taken to crawling into his dad's bed or staying over at Scott's more often than not, letting the sounds of someone being alive next to him keep him grounded in reality.

He remembers falling asleep at pack meetings a lot as well, lulled to sleep by his ever-growing fatigue and the knowledge of being surrounded by people that care if he lives or dies. He thinks he remembers waking up to someone rubbing soothing patterns on his back on more than one occasion, but he can't be sure. Most of it is a big blur to him now. 

He had stopped sleeping in other people's beds when everyone had started breathing a little lighter again, smiling a little wider. They had assumed it was because he was finally getting better, as well, and he hadn't found it in his heart to correct them. They had enough on their plates already without worrying about Stiles fighting demons in his sleep.

 

 

He goes to see a psychiatrist on campus, where nobody knows he's the Sheriff's son, and he's cautiously optimistic it might help, but he soon realizes there's only so many white lies you can tell someone who has made a profession of digging up deeper-lying issues before you start inevitably telling the truth. 

It's exhausting.

Before he knows it, he's talking about his mom in his sessions because it's the only thing he _can_ talk about honestly without getting committed, and though it feels good, it's not what is making him dread closing his eyes at night. 

He doesn't stop going, but he stops hoping it will do anything to help him with sleeping.

 

He doesn't know what to do. He can't talk to anyone at college about this and he doesn't _want_ to talk to anyone back home about it.

He tries sleeping pills, once, but they only make it harder to wake himself up when the darkness starts to creep in, so he doesn't let himself think about keeping them and flushes them down the toilet the next morning.

He calls Lydia once, when he wakes up drenched in sweat and feels like the night is suffocating him, because he knows she's not going to tell anyone if he doesn't want her to, and tells her to place the phone on the pillow and go back to sleep. She doesn't say anything, only breathes his name tenderly and continues to lay awake with him for hours. 

He feels guilty about it in the morning, because he knows she still feels responsible for what is happening to him and he doesn't call her again.

He gets on a first-name basis with the barista of the coffee cart round the corner, instead, and teaches himself to like his coffee black and strong.

 

 

 

 

 

**…**

 

 

 

**Stiles Stilinksi to Derek Hale 5.23 pm:**

_**Body found in the woods. My dad's going out to investigate. Anything he should know?** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 5.42 pm:**

_**Already talked to the Sheriff. Situation is under control.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 5.43 pm:**

_**Any more details you wanna share?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 5.51 pm:**

_**Nothing? Really?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 5.57 pm:**

_**Derek, come on!** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 6.13 pm:**

_**You wanted nothing to do with all of this anymore. Just respecting your wishes.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.14 pm:**

_**Yeah, cause you've “respected my wishes” so much in the past.** _

 

_-_

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.26 pm:**

_**Are you ignoring me now? Is this you being passive-aggressive via text?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.29 pm:**

_**Just so you know, you're kinda hard to read without your eyebrows to clue me in on what's going on.** _

 

 

_-_

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.38 pm:**

_**Okay, definitely ignoring me now.** _

 

 

_-_

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.45 pm:**

_**Goddamnit, Derek. You're such a grumpyface sometimes!** _

 

 

 

 

_**…** _

 

 

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.41 am:**

_**You asleep?** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.43 am:**

_**No.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.43 am:**

_**Me neither.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.44 am:**

_**I figured.** _

 

 

-

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.51 am:**

_**Stiles. Was there a reason for texting me in the dead of night?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.53 am:**

_**Just wanted to know if anyone else is still up.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.54 am:**

_**Don't even think about asking me to look at the stars with you.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.55 am:**

_**I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that and look at them anyway.** _

 

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.58 am:**

_**Okay.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.59 am:**

_**Okay.** _

 

 

 

**...**

 

 

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.02 pm:**

_**Quick question: how do I know if my milk has gone sour without having to taste?** _

 

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.05 pm:**

_**If you're too afraid to drink it, just throw it away.** _

 

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.06 pm:**

_**Oh Derek, how I've missed your wit!** _

 

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.07 pm:**

_**You asked.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.08 pm:**

_**I know you've never done the whole poor college student-routine, but I can't just throw everything away that I think has gone bad!** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.10 pm:**

_**That doesn't sound very healthy.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.11 pm:**

_**Neither does starving.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.13 pm:**

_**Erica wants me to tell you to man up and just drink it.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.14 pm:**

_**For the record, I think that's a bad idea.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.14 pm:**

_**Just make your annoying roommate test it.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.15 pm:**

_**Hey! Only I get to call him annoying!** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.16 pm:**

_**Ok, apparently it's very sour. He doesn't look happy.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.16 pm:**

_**You're very welcome.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.17 pm:**

_**What for?! Alfie did all the work.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.18 pm:**

_**You can thank me later.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.18 pm:**

_**After he's murdered me, sure.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.19 pm:**

_**Gotta go, milk on the floor. Thank you so much.** _

 

 

 

 

 

**…**

 

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.28 am:**

_**So why do you were-people get to keep your clothes when wolfing out?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.29 am:**

_**It would be a lot more entertaining if you busted your shorts every time you did.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.29 am:**

_**Would give us unsuspecting bystanders something to laugh about in the face of imminent death, at least.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 2.30 am:**

_**Shouldn't you be sleeping?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski 2.31 am:**

_**Shouldn't** _ **you** **_?_ **

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 2.31 am:**

_**Very mature. College's really doing a number on you.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 2.31 am:**

_**Better question: why are you watching Twilight?** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 2.31 am:**

_**Again.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.33 am:**

_**Can't sleep.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.34 am:**

_**Waiting for the bad acting to bore me to sleep.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 2.36 am:**

_**Is it working?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.36 am:**

_**Nah. Watching the “werewolves” tear their shirts off without reason to is actually quite entertaining.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.37 am:**

_**Makes me think of home, though.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 2.40 am:**

_**That a bad thing?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.42 am:**

_**Right now? Kind of, yeah.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.47 am:**

_**Not your fault, though.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.52 am:**

_**Just...sleeping is hard sometimes.** _

 

 

_-_

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.59 am:**

_**Derek?** _

 

_-_

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.07 am:**

_**Come on, I didn't mean it like that.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 3.09 am:**

_**Get some sleep, Stiles.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.08 am:**

_**Not like I'm not** _ **trying.**

 

-

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.16 am:**

_**Not even going to tell me goodnight, are you?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.25 am:**

_**Fine, be like that.** _

 

_-_

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 3.42 am:**

_**Night, asshole.** _

 

 

...

 

 

The first week of December, Stiles has an exam to write. He hasn't slept a wink the night before and he's running on nothing more than a triple espresso and half a doughnut, so when there's an assignment where he is asked to explore the parallels and similarities in a row of supposedly satanic killings, he takes one look at the pictures of the victims and lets his forehead hit the desk in defeat.

He so does not have the energy for this. 

He's done everything by the book since the disaster that was his first week of college: has turned in every assignment on time, has told them all what they wanted to hear, had scoffed and rolled his eyes, but lied about what he knows to be the truth anyway and he's just so sick of it all. 

So he shoots caution to the wind and stops filtering: he tells them about druids and sacrifices and all of the big bad things that are out there in the woods, just waiting to take your sanity. He writes until his hand cramps and doesn't look back while storming out the door.

 

He buys a bottle of Jack and two cokes and hits the dorms. 

His roommate thinks he's finally learned how to be a normal college student. He drinks half of the bottle and curls up on his bed silently until Alfie gets the picture and leaves. 

He dials Derek's number somewhere past midnight and falls asleep to the sound of his voice mail.

 

 

 

In the morning, he wakes to three missed calls from Derek. His head is throbbing like it wants to split open and he's about two seconds away from racing for the sink – he's in no condition to deal with explaining drunk dialing to _Derek._

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 11.21 am:**

_**Sorry. Butt dial. Won't happen again.** _

 

 

He knows he's not going to get an answer. And it's totally fine with him, too - he's still slightly miffed about Derek acting like a spoiled brat a few days prior anyway. 

 

Totally fine.

 

The sight of his lock screen is making his head throb.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

**Sheriff Stilinski to Stiles Stilinski 1.38 pm:**

_**People keep mistaking me ordering fries for ordering salad. Any idea what's up with that?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Sheriff Stilinski 1.39 pm:**

_**No clue, dad. I swear. I hear salad's good for you, though. Should probably eat it. Free food, right?** _

 

 

**Sheriff Stilinski to Stiles Stilinski 1.40 pm:**

_**It's not** _ **free.** **_I'm paying for it with my fries-money._ **

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Sheriff Stilinski 1.42 pm:**

_**You shouldn't even have fries-money. So. Eat up.** _

 

 

_**...** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.06 pm:**

_**Dude! Going through my dad to get on my good side? That's gotta be a new low.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.08 pm:**

_**Totally working though. You know me so well ;)** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 2.12 pm:**

_**Stop emoji-ing at me.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.13 pm:**

_**Aha! HE LIVES!!** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 2.13 pm:**

_**Also, I have no idea what you're talking about.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.14 pm:**

_**Sure you don't.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 2.15 pm:**

_**I have absolutely no idea how you did it (and I'm guessing as son of the sheriff, it's better if I never find out), but thanks anyway.** _

 

 

_**-** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 5.02 pm:**

_**People scare easily.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 5.03 pm:**

_**SO don't want to know.** _

 

_**-** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.13 pm:**

_**Hey. We okay?** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 6.14 pm:**

_**We're fine, Stiles.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.15 pm:**

_**Good. That's good. Cause, you know, not being fine makes me...** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 6.17 pm:**

_**Butt dial?** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.20 pm:**

_**Yeah.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 6.21 pm:**

_**Go to bed, Stiles.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.22pm:**

_**It's not even dark yet!** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.31 pm:**

_**Wait. Is this how every conversation is going to end now?!** _

 

_-_

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.43 pm:**

_**Fine. Go to bed yourself. God.** _

 

_-_

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 6.51 pm:**

_**Glad we're fine though.** _

 

_-_

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 7.02 pm:**

_**Googled emojis (cause I know you secretly love them). This one's yours: >:-(** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 7.03 pm:**

_**Means “grumpy”. Ok, bye now! ;)** _

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

He's almost done with the semester before Christmas break starts when Lydia pays him a visit. She comes bearing Chinese and they sit on Stiles' bed, chit-chatting about lectures and professors and their plans for the holidays over egg rolls and fried noodles. 

Lydia doesn't bring up the phone call and Stiles doesn't ask how her physics class is going (the professor is incompetent, apparently, and it's a sore subject for her). 

It's a nice arrangement they've got going here. 

Until Lydia nudges his foot and raises her eyebrows at him.

 

“So? Who is it?” 

 

Stiles stuffs another egg roll in his mouth and mumbles around the food.

 

“Who's what?”

 

“You're totally distracted, you don't really seem to listen and you didn't even flinch once when I touched your leg! That's never happened in all the time since I started knowing you exist... and I want to know who replaced me.”

 

Stiles shifts awkwardly on his pillow and clears his throat. “You know you could never be repl-”

 

“Oh stop it, I'm not _offended._ This is good”, she assures him and even smiles to emphasize her point. “I'm just curious. So who is this mysterious...girl? Guy, maybe?”

 

Stiles chokes on the rest of his egg roll and coughs it up violently.

 

“ _What?”_ , he squeaks.

 

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Oh come on. Danny has been saying for years that you like yourself some -”

 

“Don't!”, Stiles sputters and claps a hand over her mouth.”Don't finish that sentence.”

 

Lydia bats his hand away and sighs heavily. “ _Fine._ Jeez, you're touchy about this.”

 

Stiles waves his arms wildly in a pantomimic expression of _who wouldn't be?!_

 

“Anyway...I trust Danny's gay-dar. I don't think he's ever been wrong before.”

 

“Well, he is now. I'm not _gay._ ”

 

“Fine, bisexual-dar, whatever. Don't try to distract me with technicalities, Stiles. It won't work.”

 

He's never realized before that there's a limit to how much a person can blush. He's kind of strangely relieved he has hit it early on in this conversation.

 

 

“There's really nothing to -”

 

“Oh, don't give me that, Stiles. You're going to tell me, whether you want to or not, so just...spill.”

 

She waits for him to speak, but Stiles is suddenly very interested in the pattern of his bed sheets and not so interested in speaking. Lydia heaves a deep sigh.

 

“I'm guessing it really is a boy that's got you all worked up then. You've never even been this hesitant to discuss your pining for me _with me_ before.”

 

“I didn't _pine..._ ”, Stiles whines and buries his face in his hands.

 

“I'll take that as a yes. So, what's he like?”

 

Stiles groans and flops to his back on the bed.

 

“God, I can't believe you're making me do this”, he mutters under his breath, cheeks burning. “Okay, here goes: he's … not very nice. Most of the time, he's actually pretty rude and also, kinda violent. Not someone you would want to bump into in a dark alley, trust me, I would know. He also doesn't like to smile very much. Or at all. I don't think he has a job, either. So, not really someone you should encourage me to like.”

 

He pauses, waits for Lydia to react but the room is silent for a few long, tense moments and then Stiles moans and throws an arm across his eyes.

 

“But he's also like a total teddy bear inside and I think he might have done some really nice things for me recently and he's totally protective of his friends and like...but all of that doesn't even matter at all!”, he ends with a whine and keeps his arm firmly over his eyes so he doesn't have to witness the pity on Lydia's face.

 

“Why not?”

 

Stiles sits up abruptly, eyes wild and cheeks flushed. “Didn't you hear me? He's not a nice person. Stop encouraging this!”

 

“Well neither am I. That's never bothered you very much before. So what is it, really?”

 

Stiles deflates a little, starts fiddling with a loose thread in his pillow case.

 

“It's never going to happen. I think he still sees me as the awkward kid I was at 16.”

 

Lydia snatches Stiles' pillow away from him resolutely and rolls her eyes.

 

“Okay, here's the deal, Stiles: _you_ know we're talking about Derek, _I_ know we're talking about Derek, so how about we just call this hypothetical boy _Derek_ and get down to business,huh?”

 

 

“Wha- he's no- I don-”, Stiles stammers and spills some Coke on his jeans.

 

“Oh don't even try. You're not exactly as subtle as you think you are.”

 

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times, but there's really nothing he can say to that. 

 

“Although it's nice to have confirmation. Much better to work with.”

 

Confusion makes Stiles' eyebrows draw into a frown. This conversation is rapidly getting away from him.

 

“So, I don't really see the problem. You've been texting lately, right?”

 

“How do you even...god! Erica is such a gossip, I'm gonna kill her!”

 

“Cut her some slack, she's the one who has to live with his grumpy ass”, Lydia chides and then claps her hands in a no-nonsense manner. “So, what's going on?”

 

Stiles stops scrubbing at the wet patch on his jeans in favor of flopping onto his back with a dramatic sigh.

 

“I don't know!”, he whines. “I mean, yeah, we text and he's being nicer than usual, but...it's always me who initiates conversation and...I feel like he's trying to keep his distance?”

 

Lydia hums thoughtfully and goes to lie down next to Stiles.

 

“Well, we've always known he's not the most emotionally mature person...”, she muses and pokes Stiles lightly in the ribs.

 

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

 

He follows it up with a heavy sigh. 

 

Lydia turns to stare at the side of Stiles' face. 

 

“But...just because some people have problems expressing their emotions, doesn't mean they don't have them.”

 

Stiles swallows with difficulty and lies on his side so he's facing Lydia. 

 

“I know”, he whispers into the space between them. 

It's not like he has the best handle on his emotions at the moment, either.

 

Lydia finds his hand between them and intertwines her fingers with his. They lay in silence for a while, breathing in tandem until Lydia starts drawing patterns on the back of Stiles' hand.

There's sadness lining her eyes and she gives him a wistful little smile.

 

“I'm really sorry”, she breathes and squeezes his hand for emphasis, “for what happened to you. I'm really sorry I couldn't -”

 

“Don't, Lydia”, Stiles urges. “It's not your fault.”

 

Lydia's eyes are shining wetly in the dim light of Stiles' bedroom and he feels his own eyes starting to sting at the sight.

 

“It is. I was supposed to bring you back in one piece, I was supposed to make sure you would be fine and...I'm sorry you had to suffer because I couldn't. If I had known...”

 

She presses her lips together in a thin line and blinks against the wetness in her eyes. Stiles shushes her and draws her into his side, tucking her head under his chin.

 

“Nobody knew, okay? Hell, even I thought I was still in love with you at the time. There's no way anyone else could have known. Don't ever think you're anything but one hundred percent on the pro side of things keeping me in Beacon Hills, okay?”

 

There's a wet kind of laugh from where Lydia is snuffling against Stiles' neck.

 

“You actually wrote a pro/con-list?”

 

“Hell yeah! It's not like I hated everything back home. Just, you know...insanity and mass murder and stuff”, he mutters conversationally and tickles Lydia's side until she squirms out of his embrace and looks up at him expectantly from under her lashes.

 

“Which side is he on?”

 

Stiles heaves a sigh and rubs his eyes tiredly. “I have no fucking clue.”

 

Lydia hums sympathetically and lies back down on Stiles' chest.

“Something to think about over Christmas, huh?”

 

Stiles gives a non-committal grunt and squeezes Lydia closer with one arm.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 4.12 pm:**

_**Merry Christmas, Grumpyface!** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 4.21 pm:**

_**Stop calling me that.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 4.22 pm:**

_**Merry Christmas to you, too.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 4.23 pm:**

_**No can do, Grumpyface. It suits you so well.** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 4.25 pm:**

_**I'm fighting the urge to come over there and punch you in the face.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 4.26 pm:**

_**At least you're still fighting it! That's the Christmas spirit!** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 4.26 pm:**

_**See you on NYE?** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 4.27 pm:**

_**I've been told my attendance is mandatory.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 4.27 pm:**

_**:)** _

 

 

**Derek Hale to Stiles Stilinski 4.28 pm:**

_**Stop.** _

 

 

**Stiles Stilinski to Derek Hale 4.28 pm:**

_**See you then! ;)** _

 

 

_**…** _

 

 

 

New Year's Eve dawns bright and early and Stiles lies in bed wide-awake as the light changes from dark blue to a dusty gray, wondering where the year went.

 

They have a barbecue in the lot behind Scott's house in the evening. Stiles spends most of it chatting with Erica and Allison and keeping a careful eye on Lydia. It's not like he fools himself enough to think it would come as a surprise to anyone here if they found out Stiles had been harboring not-so-friendly feelings for Derek for a while, but still – Lydia in possession of such delicate information is nothing short of terrifying.

She's been making placating gestures at him the whole evening, though, so he figures he's probably not in any immediate danger at the moment.

 

It's nearing midnight when Allison excuses herself to find Scott and Erica cocks her head to the side minutely, seemingly listening for something Stiles' pruny little human ears can't pick up and announces she's going to borrow a sweater from Scott and disappears.

A second later, Derek steps out of the shadows beside Stiles and wordlessly hands him a fresh bottle of beer. Stiles manages to only jump about a half-inch and resolves to be grateful for small mercies. 

 

They stand in silence for a few minutes, staring at the night sky, until it goes on long enough to make Stiles' skin itch.

 

“So! We survived another year, who would've thought?” he announces with false bravado and tries for a smile that doesn't look forced.

 

Some kind of complicated emotion flits across Derek's face. It's too dark for Stiles to see clearly, though, and it's gone before he can put a name to it.

 

Stiles drags in a big mouthful of beer to give his hands something to do and coughs as some of it goes down the wrong way.

 

“That was my resolution, you know?”, he goes on, tone carefully light-hearted. “Just: don't die this year. And also, don't go crazy, but I guess the jury's still out on that one.”

 

He forces a laugh and chances a glance over at Derek. He's staring into the flames of the bonfire Isaac and Scott built an hour ago and the light flickering across his face makes his mouth look like it's doing something painful.

 

“What's your resolution for the new year, then?” Derek grits out after a minute of standing extremely still and flicks his eyes to Stiles for a second.

 

Stiles can't for the life of him interpret the expression he sees in them.

 

“Try not to go any more crazy, I guess”, he quips and shrugs his shoulders at Derek.

 

Derek snorts. “Very ambitious.”

 

Stiles pokes him in the ribs with his elbow. “Hey, hey! No mocking my resolutions, I take them extremely serious. Except for where I tend to break most of them before February rolls around. Not the not-dying one, obviously – stop looking at me like that! God. So what's your resolution, big boy? Or are you too old for stupid traditions?”

 

He raises both eyebrows in a challenge and he knows he's won when Derek rolls his eyes exasperatedly.

 

Derek takes a moment to shuffle his feet awkwardly and glare at the flames in front of him. 

 

“Remember not to be selfish.”

 

The words have an odd melody to them, like he's said them enough to make the edges soften and the sounds blur together.

 

Stiles scoffs. “Dude, really? Resolutions are supposed to be things that don't come easily to you. Things you have to work for.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“What? You're not a selfish person! You _literally_ try to get yourself killed every time someone else is in trouble. Seriously, it's maddening!”

 

Derek still doesn't look convinced. “Trust me, I can be very selfish. When it comes to certain...”- his eyes flicker back to the fire and he swallows visibly- “...things.”

 

His tone has a finality to it that makes Stiles raise his hands in defeat.

 

“Alright. Enough about resolutions. God, aren't we just downright chipper tonight?”, he sighs and goes to poke Derek, who dodges him easily. Damn werewolf reflexes.

 

Derek only grunts in response and then it's back to staring at their surroundings in silence while Stiles scrambles for a change of topic. It makes him wish for the easy security of a phone in his hand and hundreds of miles between them. 

 

He bounces on his feet as his mind settles on something he's been itching to ask for a while now. 

“So, hey”, he starts as conversationally as he can manage, “How come you've never visited me at college?”

 

Derek doesn't answer immediately, just stares straight ahead. And it's not like Stiles is ever good with silences, but silences after potentially awkward questions?

He jumps to elaborate before the tension radiating off Derek's shoulders can suffocate him: 

“I mean, everybody else has been there, basically. Well, not Jackson, but him and me have kind of an unspoken agreement where we're not alone in a room together, like, ever, and he doesn't kill me, but apart from that... Even Boyd came over once and it's not like he even likes me that much... You and I,though, we talk all the time. We're bros, right? We talk about Twilight and stuff.”

 

“ _You_ talk about Twilight”, Derek grunts and glares at Stiles pointedly.

 

Stiles scoffs. “No way, dude. _You knew_ I was talking about Twilight without me having to mention any names or anything.”

 

“You obviously talk about Twilight too much then.”

 

“Don't pretend you don't secretly love it.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at that but doesn't comment. Stiles stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels awkwardly.

 

“Seriously, Derek. Any reason you're avoiding me?”

 

It comes out a touch needier than intended and Stiles bites his lip to stop from wincing aloud. 

 

Stiles expects brash denial, flippant dismissal. He doesn't expect Derek to go all still and quiet.

 

“You moved away because you wanted a chance at a normal life. And I resented you for that at first. For having a choice and for wanting it. But ... you deserve it. I want you to have it. I'm not going to be in the way of that.”

 

Derek's eyes are liquid in the flickering lights of the fire and the slope of his shoulders seems heavy under the leather of his jacket, but there's steel in his voice, somewhere beneath the layers of quiet softness and it makes Stiles question whether they're having two separate conversations.

 

“I don't get it”, he sighs, helplessly. “I get that you think having werewolves in my life kind of defeats the whole purpose of wanting to be normal and I don't completely disagree with you. But. Scott has been there, Erica and Isaac and Boyd. The place has seen its fair share of the supernatural. I don't really get why you think you being there would make it all that much worse!”

 

 

“Because it would!”, Derek growls and there's so much fire in his eyes, so much anger and pain that Stiles fears, suddenly.

 

“I thought things were going okay. I mean...I tell you things I can't tell anyone else. You...goddamnit, Derek, you're my best friend aside from Scott”, Stiles rasps, desperate. “ It just feels strange...my _room_ feels strange because you've never been there. I thought I could count on my friend to make me feel okay about moving away.”

 

Derek looks tiny the way he is standing, head bowed and shoulders hunched in on himself and Stiles knows that look. Knows it because he's seen Derek emotionally detach from conversations before, has seen him pull away more times than he wishes to count and he grapples desperately for something to reel him back in.

 

“We are friends, right?” he breathes, air punching out of his lungs painfully.

 

“Right”, Derek grits, heavy on the sarcasm and without sparing Stiles another glance, turns around and starts walking, in purposeful strides that carry him away from this ragtag group of friends and towards the line of trees separating the backyard from the woods.

 

Stiles only hesitates for a second before calling after him, once, twice, but it's no use – a brand new year has begun and the fireworks are drowning him out.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

He doesn't hear from Derek on New Year's Day, which he spends curled up in a ball on the couch, trying to ignore any and all thoughts of Derek being mad at him.

He doesn't hear from Derek the day after that. Or on January 3rd, when he packs up his things and heads back to college. In fact, he doesn't hear from Derek at all for what feels like the longest time they've gone without speaking in years.

He tries calling him, after he gets his head out of his ass enough to want to clear things up, but nobody answers. He counts the rings until the mailbox picks up and tries to think of good opening statements the first few times. After that, his calls go straight to voice mail.

He tries texting, as well, but he doesn't get much farther than opening an empty text and staring at it for an immeasurable amount of time. He's always felt comfortable texting Derek before, but he doesn't know how to translate what he wants to say now into a few words on a screen. Everything he composes seems empty, insignificant. He feels like the empty spaces between words are mocking him with what he doesn't say and he doesn't want something like that to sit on Derek's phone, waiting to be dissected and pried open.

 

So instead he calls and listens to the nice woman tell him Derek is temporarily unable to take his call.

 

 

 

…

 

 

He calls Lydia one night, because she's the only one he has ever told how he really feels about Derek and he thinks the information might be important, here.

She lets him whine for a solid five minutes before cutting him off decisively.

“Stiles. You're smart enough to figure this out on your own.”

He wants to tell her, that _nope, he's really not_ , but he's only met with the dial tone by the time he has found his voice enough to tell her.

 

 

…

 

 

 

He gets the results for his exam on satanic killings and although he's not exactly surprised to find he failed it spectacularly, he's more than a little stunned when he goes to throw the offending papers in the trash and finds a note stuck to the back of it. It informs him he's allowed to make up for the credit by writing an essay on the subject and who knew there would be good sides to everyone thinking you're suffering from a psychotic break?

The note also tells him to _maybe talk to a professional about his vivid imagination._

He decides against throwing it out, then, and instead pins it to the wall above his desk as a reminder to himself that he's allowed to reach for a helping hand when it's being offered.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

His dad comes to visit a few days later and takes him out for pizza. Stiles suspects the sudden interest in his son's eating habits might have to do with him complaining about the upcoming finals repeatedly over the phone, blaming his foul mood on hours and hours of studying making his brain scramble, when really, all Stiles has been doing is stare at his closed books and try not to think too hard.

He orders peperoni and decides against telling his dad that failing finals is really the last thing on his list of things to brood about.

They make idle small-talk while waiting for the food to arrive, talking about nothing of importance and it's making Stiles antsy that he just _knows_ his father is waiting for the food to provide an adequate distraction from having to hold eye contact before tackling the big question marks hanging above his head.

Sure enough, once the pizzas arrive, the Sheriff is instantly focused intently on cutting up his food and clears his throat without looking up from his plate.

 

“Stiles, why don't you tell me what's really going on with you? I've never seen you this worried about finals before and I feel like there's something you're not telling me.”

 

He looks up just long enough to see the panicked expression on Stiles' face and sighs heavily, putting his knife down.

 

“Okay. Tell your dad.”

 

“It's not...it's stupid”, Stiles mumbles, shifting awkwardly on the hard wooden chair.

 

“You obviously don't think it's stupid if it has you feeling like this. And I promise you I won't think it's stupid either.”

 

Stiles swallows the lump that's clogging his throat and concentrates on picking apart the napkin in his hands.

 

“It's going to sound really stupid anyway”, he mutters. At the lack of reaction from his dad, he continues with a sigh: “Okay, you asked for it. Here it goes: There's this...person. That I like. Like...a lot. And I thought...we were becoming...really good friends and then I thought, maybe they liked me back as well because we talked a lot and we texted and there was some...touching? Not like that, Dad, god! Totally G-rated, I swear.”

He trails off, his ears burning bright pink by now and he sneaks a glance at his dad who has his eyes fixed resolutely on his pizza. When there's no plea for him to stop, he takes a deep breath and continues.

“So, yeah, I thought maybe things were...going somewhere. Except that I feel like... this person tries to make sure we're not alone for too long and they've never been to see me here although most of our mutual friends have and I tried talking to them about it and it kinda...dissolved into a fight? To be honest, I don't even know what happened! They just...stalked off angrily and. Refuse to talk to me now. So.”

 

Stiles slumps down in his seat when he's finished, refusing to look anywhere but at the torn up pieces of napkin on the table in front of him. He can hear his dad heave a sigh and move around in his chair.

 

“God. I knew it. However much you want something not to be true, when it comes to your adolescent son, it most probably is.”

His voice sounds muffled and sure enough, as Stiles looks up, his dad has his face buried in his hands. He scrubs them down over his mouth once, twice and then lets them fall to the table, fixing Stiles with a tired look.

 

“We're talking about Derek Hale here, right? That's the “person” you like?”

There's even air quotes and everything.

 

Stiles gapes at him. “How...I mean _how_?”, he sputters, astonished. “You were the one telling me I didn't have the _fashion sense_ to be gay! How did you go from there to thinking I'm in love with Derek?!”

 

The more Stiles flails and shifts and gestures, the stiller his dad becomes, leaning back in his chair slowly and fixing his son with a serene look on his face, one eyebrow arched.

 

“One, it's not exactly hard to figure out when you combine the way you've _always_ looked at him with your sudden abject fear of pronouns just there and two...” - the second eyebrow joins the first - “...give your old dad some credit. I've spent enough years getting my ears talked off about Lydia Martin to know you're not _gay_. Please.”

 

 

Stiles stares at him, incredulous, while the Sheriff crosses his arms over his chest with a satisfied smirk at the dumbfounded look on his son's face.

 

“So you're not...mad?”

 

The smirk drops from his dad's face, replaced by something soft and sad.

“Stiles. I would never be mad at you for...having feelings. I don't care if you like a boy or a girl, I just care about you being happy, don't you ever forget that.”

 

Stiles has the sudden urge to jump across the table and hug his dad, to crawl into his lap like he did when he was a small child and had a bad dream, to wrap himself up in his safety and hide from the world, but he's not a child anymore and so he settles for bumping his knee against his dad's under the table.

 

The smirk returns to his dad's face and there's mirth in his eyes when he continues.

“Of course, I'm not exactly _thrilled_ you picked Derek Hale to have feelings for, of all people, but...what can I say? It's a step up from Lydia Martin, at least.”

 

He swears, he can actually _feel_ his eyes bugging. “ _What?!”_

 

“Well at least this time there's an actual good chance this won't end in you having your heart broken again. Believe you me, it was not a pretty sight.”

 

“It wasn't a pretty _feeling_ , either! But didn't you listen to me just now?! Where do you get the idea this isn't going to end badly?”

 

“At least Derek already knows you exist”, the Sheriff grumbles and then fixes Stiles with a pointed look. “Oh, he _knows_ alright.”

 

“I don't really like the way you say that.”

 

“I say it that way because I wanted to spare both of us the embarrassment of me having to point out that Derek likes you.”

 

Stiles groans, burying his face in both of his hands. “And now you did anyway! Why? It's not like it's true anyway.”

 

“Stiles. If it's this obvious to me, I'm pretty sure it's a lot more obvious to everyone else, including you”, the Sheriff sighs, prying one of Stiles' hands away from his face.

 

“No offense, Dad, but that doesn't exactly count”, Stiles scoffs. “You're like genetically obligated to think I'm the awesomest person on the planet and that everybody should love me.”

 

His dad quirks an eyebrow and smirks at his son. “Very true. But I'm also genetically obligated to want to ignore any and all older muscular werewolf-type moody guys who have their eyes set on my teenage son, so...”

 

“I'm not a teenager anymore!”

 

“Oh, trust me, you will _always_ be my teenage son when it comes to dating older guys...”, his dad chuckles and pats Stiles on the shoulder across the table.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes and swats his dad's hand away.

“But you would be like...okay with me dating Derek? Not that that's even a remote possibility right now, but...hypothetically...”, Stiles trails off, eying his dad carefully.

 

The Sheriff huffs a laugh. “Yes, Stiles, _hypothetically,_ I would be okay with you dating Derek. You don't even live at home anymore, it's not like I could do much about it even if I wasn't okay with it. But, since I've realized that Derek and I actually have shared interests, such as my son, _the most awesomest person on the planet_ , I've come to the conclusion that he's actually a pretty decent guy. Misunderstood and angry, yes, but not so bad overall.”

 

Stiles rakes a hand through his hair, groaning loudly. “I'm just going to ignore the fact that you _once again_ alluded to the very frightening possibility of you and Derek being buddies of some kind... But, Dad, it doesn't exactly look like we're gonna live happily ever after right now. What do I do here?”

 

“I don't get why everything's so complicated with you young people nowadays”, the Sheriff frowns. “This is not as hard as you think it is. Just talk to him.”

 

Stiles scoffs at him, arms flying outwards in an attempt to show his indignation.

 

“You say that like it's the easiest thing in the world. _He doesn't want to talk to me!”,_ Stiles cries, accentuating his words by pounding the table in frustration.

 

The Sheriff shoots him a disapproving glare at the scene he's making and fixes him with a finger pointed at his chest. His voice is low and serious when he speaks:

 

“Then _make him._ ”

 

 

…

 

 

 

He doesn't know how to make Derek talk though, so he settles for calling his voice mail a bit more for the time being and spends half of his forensic entomology lecture debating whether or not to ask Scott if Derek might have lost (or burnt) his phone and the other half trying hard not to ogle the guy who tends to wear leather pants when it's cold outside.

Because as much as he had looked forward, in theory, to learning how exactly to determine a person's time of death by looking at the insects crawling around on their corpse, in reality, it's just picture after picture of bugs and flies and larvae in minute detail. It's disturbing, sometimes, but mostly it's just plain boring because he never wanted to know the exact life span and gestation period and developmental stages of _Necrophorus vespillo_ and, God help him, he's been trying to picture Derek in leather pants since the second week of the semester.

It makes him feel even worse about not being able to get Derek to talk to him, though, so he focuses on not letting his eyes drift into that particular corner of the lecture hall. Which leads to him staring at the back of the girl in front of him, who is blonde and tiny and...the girl he tried talking to at the beginning of the semester, back when _Project: Be Normal_ was still in full swing.

He almost reels back physically as the realization hits him and images of their encounter flood his mind.

He remembers her smiling at him as she turned around, friendly and unassuming, remembers how the smile slowly slipped from her lips when she took in his face and connected the dots. He remembers the little crease between her eyebrows, remembers thinking she looked cute while she did it, thinking maybe he wasn't doing so bad when she laid a hand on his forearm.

And then she went and told him she was _sorry for his loss_ in that voice you reserve solely for condolences. For a tiny, wild moment he had thought she had somehow heard about his mom, but then she talked about him _being brave for going into this line of work_ and how _they're going to find those bastards_ and oh.

There were no bastards when it came to his Mom, just plain old boring cells that didn't know when to stop growing, no-one to find and no-one to blame but life itself and that girl was not talking about his mother's death. Instead, she was talking about that time Stiles had a panic attack in the middle of class.

He had half a mind to tell her that no, he did not lose someone he loved at a crime scene but in a hospital bed when he realizes she called him _brave,_ of all things, and that's a lot better than the terms that come to his mind when he thinks about breaking down into hysterics over a few pictures of claw marks. And anyway, it's not like he could actually tell her the truth, so he settled for giving her a wavering smile and ducking out of class as fast as possible.

 

 

And as he sits in entomology class now and stares at the back of her head, he realizes he's been away from Beacon Hills for five months, he hasn't witnessed a supernatural occurrence in over seven months and still: sitting in the midst of dozens of people his own age that know nothing about the dark things that hide out in the woods, he feels as far removed from normal as ever.

 

Because he's not normal. His life will never be normal again. His friends are not normal and what happened to him wasn't normal and if he's being honest with himself, it changed him too much to ever go back to the way things were before.

 

Normal stopped being an option a long time ago, right around the moment werewolves became the punchline to an inside joke that was never funny to begin with.

 

 

 

…

 

 

So he hops into his jeep the minute he gets out of his class and drives the fifty minutes to Beacon Hills. It's already getting dark by the time he makes it onto the highway and he really doesn't like driving long distances at night, but he's finally decided to live up to some of his reputation and _be brave_ and that does not include sleeping on it to avoid driving in the dark.

Dusk has settled once he arrives at the loft and it makes the old building look a lot more intimidating than Stiles remembers, though that could just be owed to the fact that _being_ brave and _feeling_ brave are two very different things indeed.

Stiles pauses and gulps down two, three large breaths when he stands in front of the apartment door. He's not sure what he's doing here exactly, hasn't planned any further than showing up at his door and taking Derek by surprise. He doesn't actually have any idea what he's supposed to say once he gets there.

He feels his heartbeat speed up at the thought and before he can go into full-on panic mode and lose his nerve, he balls his hand into a fist and knocks on the door decisively.

 

There's nothing.

Stiles huffs and knocks once more, louder this time.

 

Still nothing.

He pulls the sleeve of his hoodie ( _Derek's_ hoodie, he realizes belatedly) over his fist and pounds harder on the door, relentlessly, calling Derek's name a few times for good measure.

 

Dead silence.

He deflates as the realization that all of his braveness is going to be wasted on an empty apartment washes over him, feels his shoulders sag and his breathing slow.

He's come all this way to _make him talk_ and now what? Turn around and try again tomorrow?

The thought doesn't sit right. He doubts he's going to get up the courage to do this again if he leaves himself the loop-hole of pretending none of this ever happened.

A thought hits him then and although it sends his heart into over-drive once more, he scrambles to pull the sweater he stole from Derek months ago over his head before he loses his courage again and folds it carefully before putting it onto the stoop in front of the door.

He searches his pockets for a scrap of paper or a receipt or anything at all to write on but comes up empty-handed. He looks around, searching the hall and thinks he might have done _something_ good in his life, because there's a some kind of list pinned to the wall next to the elevator where people can write in complaints about the building for the super to fix. There's a pen hanging from a string next to it and the list is empty except for where someone has scribbled in _This whole building._ in a barely readable scrawl (which Stiles is ninety percent sure belongs to Boyd). He tears off the lower third of the list and snags the pen.

 

He can't make Derek talk. But he _can_ make him _listen._

 

So he makes himself write out what has been going through his head ever since he left the lecture hall, places the note on top of the folded sweater and turns around, forces himself to keep walking out the door even as the doubts set in.

 

                 ..................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

 

_I'd rather be not-normal with you than normal without you._

 

 

               ....................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

 

 

Driving back to college and putting mile after mile of distance between himself and that note is hard.

Getting out of the car is hard. Going up to his room and then staying there is hard. Not turning his phone off is hard.

Sitting still is hard, walking around is hard, eating and sleeping and breathing is hard.

Everything is hard because being brave is freaking _terrifying._

 

It doesn't make it any easier that there's a part of Stiles that's really scared Derek is going to turn up and laugh at him for being presumptuous. Because as much as he likes to think he's figured it all out, there's no way he can be sure.

It makes sense in the grand scheme of things, though, and that's what Stiles clings to in the hours of waiting. It's what everyone has been telling him for weeks and now that he has let himself entertain the notion of Derek actually returning his feelings to some extent, things start falling into place quite nicely: the secret smiles and touches, baking him cookies and looking out for his dad, reacting strangely to being called a friend...

And it's the only explanation he could ever come up with for Derek's strange insistence that him being at Stiles' dorm would be somehow worse than all of his other werewolf friends being there, because he's pretty sure having a werewolf boyfriend doesn't even fall anywhere close to being a boring college student on the normalcy spectrum.

It doesn't make waiting any easier, though, because if there's anyone who can have a whole twisted other reasoning behind his strange behavior, it's Derek.

 

 

…

 

 

Stiles didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he's awakened harshly by someone trying to break down his door by pounding on it. It's dark in his room and his mind feels fuzzy from being roused abruptly and sure enough, when he glances at the clock on his phone, it's a quarter past midnight. Groggily, Stiles pushes himself up from his bed and drags himself over to the offending noises against his door.

He swings it open and there, fist raised in a half-aborted motion of knocking, stands Derek, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

They stare at each other for a few still, tense moments and then Stiles sags against his door frame, strangely relieved that at least they're still talking.

“Hey”, he breathes into the space between them and watches Derek slowly drop his hand back to his side.

Derek gulps and lets his eyes slide away from Stiles' face, to the heap of fabric in his hands which Stiles recognizes instantly as the sweater he deposited at his doorstep only hours ago and he twists his hands into it.

Stiles finds it quite adorable how much like a nervous child it makes him look. The thought makes him brave somehow and he ignores that Derek has yet to say a word and points to the material in his hands.

“So I guess you got my note then.”

 

Derek makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whine but other than that, doesn't acknowledge the fact that he has been spoken to.

Stiles sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Any thoughts about it?” he asks and tries to make his voice soft and non-demanding.

The way Derek looks up sharply with his eyebrows drawn down into a frown tells Stiles he wasn't exactly successful in his attempt.

“I don't know what you want me to say”, Derek grumbles, “It doesn't _change_ anything.”

 

“Oh, really?” Stiles spits and this time, he doesn't try to soften anything, “Is that why you're suddenly here - after days of ignoring me? Because it doesn't _change anything?!_ ”

 

Derek flinches a little at the harsh tone in Stiles' voice and Stiles has half a mind to take it all back just to wipe away the dejected look on his face but then Derek looks him square in the eye with a determination he hasn't seen in a long time.

 

“You don't know what you're talking about”, he spits and it's such a condescending thing to say that Stiles can't help the burst of bitter laughter that forces its way out of his throat unbidden. It echoes terribly in the empty hallway.

 

“Is that right?” he grouses. “So you didn't keep yourself away from me on purpose because you felt I should have a shot at a normal life? You didn't think you would be solely responsible for my inevitable demise should we ever get too close? That's not what happened here?”

 

Derek doesn't answer, doesn't even look at him, just continues to pick off imaginary lint off his sweater.

 

“Because let me tell you: _I. Don't. Care._ ” He spits the words with as much venom as he can muster and it earns him a brief flash of Derek's eyes.

 

“It was a stupid idea to begin with. I'm never going to lead a normal life and I'm sick of trying.” Derek is looking at him with something akin to sadness in his eyes and it's making Stiles rapidly lose steam. His next words are barely above a whisper: “Especially if I'm going to lose you because of it.”

 

There's movement across from him now. Derek raises a hand to press it against his closed eyes and exhales in one long, shaky stream of air. He drops his hand and regards Stiles steadily for a moment, something like sorrow making the corners of his mouth droop down.

“Stiles”, he begins, softly. “It doesn't even matter. It's not about that.”

He's standing really still, not moving an inch and Stiles wants to shake him for it, wants to make his walls crumble and his control slip until there's nothing left that he can hide behind anymore. He settles for gesturing helplessly with his arms half in the air.

“Then what is it about, Derek? Because I don't understand anything anymore”, he pleads, voice shaking and eyes begging.

 

Derek swallows visibly and sways a little on his feet. “I just want you to be safe”, he tells him, voice gentle. “And you'll never be safe with me.”

 

Stiles' heart starts pounding heavily in his chest, almost painful in its intensity and he gulps down a hurried breath.

“But see, that's where you got it all wrong”, he presses. “I never feel safer than when I'm with you.”

And it's supposed to be the game-changer, it's supposed to make Derek smile and crumble and melt against him, but all Stiles gets is the bitter tug of a smirk at Derek's lips.

 

“That's an illusion”, he says. “Everyone close to me will always be in danger and the closer they get, the more dangerous it becomes. And you...”

Derek breaks off, shaking his head slightly with what would count as a tiny smile on his lips if the rest of him didn't exude sadness with every ounce of his being. “You...have the tendency to get a lot closer than I give myself permission for.”

 

And suddenly Stiles feels like all the air has been sucked from the hallway, because that's as close as they have ever gotten to an admission that this thing between them actually exists outside of the realms of Stiles' overactive mind and yet Derek is slowly drawing himself away and Stiles can't breathe.

He can hear the words that are hanging in the air around them, unspoken but screaming in their finality: _I can't risk it. Not again._

 

“Derek...”, he whispers, desperate to make him stop, to make him stay - but what is there to say?

 

_I'm sorry everyone you ever loved died. I'm sorry I'm just a meek little human and can't protect myself. I promise I won't get myself murdered on your watch? This will be different, **I** will be different?_

 

He can't say any of that and Derek seems to see it in his eyes, because he gives Stiles a curt nod and turns his back, making his way to the stairs slowly, feet dragging.

 

“Derek!”, Stiles shouts and runs after him just as Derek reaches the top of the stairs, grabs his forearm and makes him turn around. Derek's eyes are hollow, drained and it makes Stiles' heart throb painfully in his chest.

 

“I don't know what to do here, Derek. I can't promise you that nothing's ever going to happen to me. I can't promise you I'm not going anywhere because that's not my promise to make. And I can't make it hurt any less”, he whispers, voice breaking with the emotions clogging his throat. “But I can promise you that I'll do everything in my power to make sure I don't add to that hurt. I promise I won't be reckless. I promise I'll listen to you when you tell me it's too dangerous, even if I'm really really pissed at you for it. I promise I'll try to stay safe, for you.”

 

But Derek is still looking only at his shoes and he's still as rigid as ever in Stiles' grip.

 

“Derek”, Stiles whispers, voice barely audible through the tears gathering in his eyes. “Don't you want me to be happy as well?”

Derek's head snaps up at that, eyes searching Stiles' face, doubt visible in every feature.

“Of course I do”, he murmurs, voice rough and cracking around the edges.

 

Stiles allows a small smile to steal itself onto his lips even as the first tear falls.

 

“Then trust me when I say: I've tried being safe. And I've found I'd much rather be happy”, he smiles and lets the hand still gripping Derek's forearm wander towards where his hand is hanging limply at his side, sliding his palm over Derek's and linking their fingers together lightly.

 

They're so close now that Stiles hears more than sees Derek swallowing thickly and the expression his face holds is so tender that it's making warmth bloom in Stiles' stomach.

“And what would make you happy, then?” Derek asks gently and tightens his fingers around Stiles'.

Stiles uses their linked fingers to draw Derek closer, until their feet are touching and he can feel Derek's warm breath fanning across his face.

 

“Above all: being with you”, he whispers and he can barely hear himself over the rapid thumping of his heart.

The grip on his fingers tightens until it's almost painful and Derek draws him in even more by their joined hands, until they're flush against each other and all Stiles can do is stare helplessly at the tongue that peeks out of Derek's mouth to wet his lips.

 

“You sure?”, Derek growls, low in his ear and it makes Stiles' stomach flutter in anticipation. He can see every eyelash from here, fanning across Derek's cheek in a featherlight touch and he can see the crinkles around his eyes that deepen every time Stiles says something really stupid and he can see the small spot of moisture on Derek's bottom lip and he _wants._

And he's never been more sure of anything in his life, so instead of wasting any more precious time with talking, he closes the distance between them and presses his lips softly to Derek's.

There's a moment right at the beginning where neither of them moves, lips hovering against each other in the slightest approximation of a touch, too afraid of doing the wrong thing to do anything more. And then Stiles exhales raggedly, hot breath mingling with Derek's in the non-space between their lips and Derek _growls_ , deep in his throat, and gets the hand still holding his sweater around Stiles, clutching the younger boy to him possessively and pushing against his lips more purposefully.

Stiles gets a hand in Derek's hair and angles his head to give him better access, swiping his tongue against Derek's bottom lip and licking inside hungrily as Derek opens. They stumble back a few steps, until Stiles is pressed firmly against the wall next to the stairwell and all the while, Derek keeps nipping and licking and biting almost aggressively and it makes Stiles' knees go weak with want. He untangles their fingers in favor of sliding a hand under Derek's shirt, clutching at the hot skin above his waist to bring him closer, still.

His lips are tingling and throbbing deliciously as Derek releases them and moves on to Stiles neck, pressing soft kisses to the skin where neck meets shoulder and Stiles bites his lips in an attempt to stifle his moans. He threads his fingers through the soft strands of hair at the nape of Derek's neck and gasps as Derek bites sharply at the skin just below his ear, licking and kissing the skin afterwards to soften the sting. Stiles is breathing heavily by now, chest heaving and jeans straining and he opens his eyes to ground him in reality a bit. He's staring into the fluorescent light of the ceiling lamps in his dorm's hallway and although it's long past midnight, he really doesn't want to risk someone ruining their moment by sleepwalking to the bathroom.

He tugs at Derek's hair in order to get him to stop his ministrations long enough to look up at him. Derek looks dazed when he finally meets Stiles' eyes, cheeks flushed and lips bright pink and swollen. Stiles swoops in to press another soft kiss to those lips, purposefully keeping it chaste and gentle. He revels in the way Derek practically melts against him, fitting himself perfectly into Stiles' every groove and it takes a lot of effort to pry himself away from it once more.

“Hey”, Stiles whispers into Derek's ear impishly, lips just barely grazing his earlobe. “Think you can manage stepping foot into my dorm room now?”

Instead of answering, Derek growls, rumbling deep in his chest and extracts himself from Stiles, stalking away suddenly without another look back. In his dazed state, Stiles takes a second to catch on and by the time he does, Derek is already standing with one hand on his door frame, looking over his shoulder and grinning at Stiles devilishly.

 

“You coming or what?”

 

 

And Stiles is never going to admit it, but when he stumbles over his own two feet in his hurry to get over there, Derek's eyes crinkle up all beautifully and he can't even be bothered to feign embarrassment.

 

And if he gets more and more clumsy as the years go on, well, there are really a lot worse reasons for doing stupid things than watching Derek Hale go all soft and amused.

 

 

…

 

 

And it's not all sunshine and rainbows after that, although there's a lot of that, too.

Derek still has his issues, Stiles still has his nightmares and life is still hard and it sucks a lot of the time, because that's reality.

Derek can't keep Stiles safe all the time and Stiles can't keep Derek happy all the time and it's not the kind of life either had imagined for themselves when they were young, but it's _theirs_ and it's special and it's never boring.

 

 

 

_Because trying to make it as normal as possible is a stupid thing to do with the only life you're given._

 

 

 

 

Fin.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> Merry Christmas! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make the world go round, so if there's anything you liked or didn't like, please tell me :)  
> Thanks for reading! :)


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